The Peeling Trilogy

by Iain Rob Wright

  “So, what is it that’s so important, Peter?”

  “One moment, Ms Hollister. I will show to you.”

  Peter turned a corner in the cramped warehouse and Kath stayed close behind him, lighting the way with her mobile phone. It didn’t work particularly well, but at least it illuminated the piles of over-stacked boxes she would’ve otherwise bumped into.

  Kath was getting impatient. “Come on now, I’ve got to find a way to call Mr Campbell so we can all go home tonight. Unless you want to spend the night sleeping in the staff room?”

  Peter stopped at the far wall and pointed upwards, just above the height of his shoulder. Kath glanced at the area a few inches away from the boy’s outstretched finger. She didn’t understand and felt her patience thin even more. “What exactly am I supposed to be looking at?”

  Peter rolled his eyes in the faint glow of his phone display and then moved the light source toward the area he was trying to highlight.

  Kath sighed. “The fuse box? Yes, very impressive.”

  Peter rolled his eyes again and she was about to scold him for it when she spotted what he wanted her to see. It was the fuse box alright – at least it had been in a former life – but now it was a black, melted decay of wires and bubbling plastic. The green metal box that housed the circuits was untouched, but the area within looked as though it had been subjected to a hellish blaze. The acrid stench of singed rubber lingered in the cold, crisp air, but it wasn’t as strong as one would expect after an electrical fire.

  “I don’t understand,” said Kath. “What could cause this?”

  Peter shrugged at her. “I no sure. Fire maybe?”

  “Obviously not, Peter. There hasn’t been a fire because the alarms would have gone off. Not to mention it would have spread. This place is full of cardboard and paper.”

  “Blowtorch?”

  Kath considered Peter’s wild suggestion, her thoughts wandering off into the dark, insidious alleyways of her mind. Could someone have really taken a welder’s torch to the fuses? Was someone lurking in the shadows intending to have their way with her in the dark? Had some hairy beast of a man been watching her for months, planning something like this? It was certainly an opportune time with all the snowfall. The police would never make it in time, even if she managed to call them. It seemed ridiculous but, for a moment, so plausible in her anxious state of mind that she actually started to believe that someone was intending to murder her. It was like something straight out of a Richard Laymon novel she’d once read by mistake, thinking it was something else. Horrible, disgusting book. Monsters in the cellar.

  It wasn’t until Kath’s next thought that she considered herself ridiculous for letting her overactive imagination run away from her. “Ridiculous,” she said finally, “if it was someone with a blowtorch then how on earth did they manage to do it to the pub’s fuse box at the exact same time? They have no power across the street either. Same with Blue Rays on the corner.”

  Pete shrugged and walked off.

  Nothing ever seems to concern that boy; just another lazy foreigner. Someone ought to use a blowtorch on his backside! Maybe then he’d show some enthusiasm.

  Suddenly alone, Kath tried to make sense of the situation. Was some deranged madman really stalking the neighbourhood, cutting off everyone’s electricity? Or was her biggest threat merely freezing to death on the coldest night of the year? Neither outcome was appealing. All Kath knew for sure was that the fuse box didn’t destroy itself and that the real cause had yet to make itself known.

  She shivered; the chill in the air thickening suddenly, like a crushing, physical thing that squeezed at the gristle on her bones. There was no way she could stay there any longer. Not without power. Not in the dark. She made a decision. “Right, Peter, where are you?”

  A scuffling sound from the far corner of the warehouse. “I’m here, by the beer crates.”

  “Well, make sure you’re careful. You break anything and you’ll have a record of discussion before the week is out.”

  Peter didn’t respond, but Kath was certain she heard the boy sigh. She enjoyed getting under people’s skin and let loose a smile as crude as the oil-slick darkness that surrounded her. Suddenly she felt more in charge, more like her usual self. “Peter,” she shouted. “Place some pallets against the back shutter. We’re going to call it a night, but we need to secure the building as best we can before we leave.”

  “Okay, I will do this, but where is Jess? She can help.”

  “She’s wandered off somewhere.” Kath snorted. “Least of my worries right now, so go do as I’ve said – and make sure you’re careful.”

  Peter scurried away, mumbling something in Polish. At least Kath imagined it was Polish. Could be Russian or Hungarian, or whatever it is they all seemed to speak – ugly, primitive language that hurt her ears to listen to. How had Britain gotten so weak? There was a time when it had invaded third-rate nations, but now the once-great empire seemed more interested in letting them all in and keeping them fed and warm. It made her stomach turn to think her Government cared more about benefit-seeking immigrants than educated citizens like her.

  Kath left the warehouse and re-entered the supermarket, happily listening to the loud scraping noises of Peter struggling to shift the pallets in the warehouse. The thought of him blindly bumping around on his own made her chuckle as she walked towards the supermarket’s exit. She leaned against the glass fire door and looked outside. There was little she could do to secure the building – not without being able to bring the electric shutter down from the awning – but she could at least lock up with her keys. She didn’t expect anyone would be desperate enough to brave the cold to steal some groceries anyway; no one walking around in snow this deep, unscrupulous or otherwise. At least she hoped so...

  Yet, deep down in Kath’s gut, a dull throbbing, that was not her stomach ulcer, told her that tonight could well turn out to be a very long night.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “B’jaysus, it’s nice to be in the warm again. Cold as a nun’s pussy out there so it is.”

  Harry looked in the direction of the stranger’s voice, over by the pub’s entrance, and found himself at a loss. The cheery Irish accent was not what he expected. In fact, when Harry had first realised the presence of the stranger, he had felt something…ominous. But that seemed silly now.

  “Hey, who is that?” asked Steph from behind the bar. “Anyone we know?”

  A hearty chuckle floated over from the doorway as the stranger spoke once more. “No Lass, I do not believe we’ve had the pleasure. The name’s Lucas Fergus and I am on a vital quest to get some beer down me neck.”

  Steph laughed and Harry found himself amused too. It wasn’t often the pub was graced with such colour beyond old men and their tall tales of the past.

  “Well,” said Steph, “I can only offer you bottles and shots at the moment. As you can see the power is off, and that means the pumps are dry. Cash only, too, if that’s alright?”

  “Cash is the only way an honourable man pays for anything in my mind so there be no worries there, and I don’t care whether the beer comes from bottle or tap either. It all ends up in the same place.”

  “No arguments here,” said a voice Harry recognised as Old Graham’s.

  Over by the fireplace the flickering silhouette of Damien shifted and stirred at the presence of the stranger. Harry had learned from past occasions that Damien didn’t like people he didn’t know. People he didn’t know were usually unaware of his reputation; he did not like that at all. Once, Harry had witnessed Damien carve his initials into some poor lad’s forehead with a nasty-looking blade, just so people would know he was to be respected. The young man had screamed the entire time. The police never came; no one called them.

  And Harry knew that the police wouldn’t come tonight either. No matter what happened.

  Thankfully, Damien had been uncharacteristically quiet all night; but Harry couldn’t help but worry that meant somethin
g bad. When a venomous snake stopped acting like a snake, what did it mean?

  Does it mean they’re more dangerous?

  “Can we bear some light in here, you reckon?” Lucas asked them all, flicking open a glinting zippo lighter and illuminating his face in flame. He looked about Harry’s age – early-thirties – boyishly handsome with a cheeky grin to match. The man’s head was tangled with wild tussles of mousy brown hair that crept below his ears. Harry thought he looked like a handsome traveller from the front cover of one of the trashy Mills and Boon novels his wife used to collect.

  “In weather like this I’m surprised you’re not all around that lovely fireplace.” Lucas moved toward the bar, his flame-lit face a disembodied ghost as it crossed the room. “Or does that wee bald fella on the sofa not play well with others?”

  “The less said about that the better,” warned Steph in a hushed voice.

  Harry cringed, worried about the response the newcomer’s comment could possibly elicit from Damien, and was thankful, if a little surprised, when the young thug merely turned away and returned to whatever he was doing. It really wasn’t like Damien to be so reserved.

  He’s preoccupied with something. But what?

  Confident that no trouble was going to occur – at least for the time-being – Harry decided he would join the newcomer at the bar. Sitting alone in the dark wasn’t awfully appealing and he needed a refill anyway. His current beer smelt like bad eggs.

  “So Lucas,” Harry said, arriving at the bar and propping his elbows against its gnarled surface. “Where have you come in from?”

  Lucas turned to Harry, the zippo still lighting his face. His striking blue eyes flickered in the shimmering glow of the flame. “I’ve come in from the bloody cold fella, but before that I came from down south.”

  Harry raised an eyebrow. “South?”

  “That’s what I said now, isn’t it? Been here-there-and-everywhere in my time – up and down, upside down – but originally I hail from the North. Been spending a lot of time in the South more recently though, after a falling out with me father. Suits me just fine; warmer climate, you know?”

  Harry nodded; the gesture pointless in the dark. “I take it you’re talking about Northern and Southern Ireland, or do you mean since you’ve been in England?”

  “Now, where is that drink I heard a rumour about,” said Lucas, single-mindedly. “This is a pub, is it not?”

  Steph shouted from the backroom behind the bar. “Hold your horses! For a complete stranger you’re pretty demanding.”

  “I’m a growing lad, and if ye make me wait I may just fade away. Or, worse than that, I may sober up.”

  Steph came back through to the bar holding a wooden tray full of mismatched candles. The flames danced around her breasts and Harry tried not to stare at them. Carefully, she placed the candles evenly along the bar and the heady smell of burning wax wafted into the air. The first candle she had placed in front of Old Graham, whilst the last went in front of Nigel. In between, Harry and Lucas got candles too.

  “That’s better,” said Steph. “Now, who wants a beer besides our new friend here?”

  “I’m ready for one,” said Harry. “This one has gone bad.”

  “Mine too,” said Old Graham, pushing his own pint forward. “I’m going to have to have a dozen more just to make up for it.”

  Steph scrunched up her face. “Strange…Maybe there’s a problem with the taps. Not surprised, the amount you lot drink. They probably couldn’t take the strain.”

  Lucas chuckled. “Looks like I’ve come to the right place. You’re men after me own heart, and now that I can see a little bit better, I can also admire what a fine young wench we have ourselves behind the bar.”

  “Hey, less of the wench!” Steph objected. They all laughed and she got to work handing them their bottled beers, each of them swigging deeply as though it was their first of the night. Perhaps for Lucas it was.

  The Irishman pointed a finger. “So who’s the beefy fella down the end of the bar that doesn’t talk?”

  “My name is Nigel and I can hear you.”

  “Well, Big Man, come and suck ale with the rest of us.”

  “Maybe later.”

  “What’s wrong with you, man? There a gal down there with ya?”

  “Huh, I wish,” said Nigel.

  “Get your moody arse down here! A fella shouldn’t be lonesome on a night like this. The cold out there could kill a man stone dead.”

  “Okay, okay!” Nigel conceded, disturbing the shadows as he raised his hands in front of his face. He slid down the bar to join them all, dumping his heavy mass down onto a creaking stool beside Lucas. Harry nodded hello at the man and he nodded back.

  Lucas certainly had a knack for bringing people together. Magnetic personality was the phrase that came to Harry’s mind.

  Lucas spoke again. “You know something, fellas? I don’t think that snow is gonna let up tonight. No word of a lie but it’s like the feckin end of the world out there.”

  “Oh, very nice,” said Steph. “You walk into my pub and start worrying everyone. We’ve all got to try and get home tonight.”

  “What? Are ye drunk, lass? Ain’t no man getting anywhere in that winter blanket.”

  Steph’s face dropped slightly, the dull candle-light making her expression seem grim. “How did you get here then?”

  Lucas smiled knowingly. “I was nearby and realised things were bad, so I thought to meself, ‘where’s the best place to be stuck on a night like this?’ Well of course there was only one answer, wasn’t there?”

  “The boozer!” Old Graham shouted gleefully, clearly delighted by the Irishman’s philosophy. “Anyway,” the pensioner added, “don’t you worry, young Stephanie. There’s always room upstairs at my place to keep warm.”

  Cheeky sod, thought Harry. Wonder if the old guy even has enough lead in his pencil to get it up these days? If he does, then fair play to the old bugger.

  Steph laughed defiantly, the air from her nostrils slanting the flames of the nearby candles. “The only way you’ll get me up there, old man, is if you’re sleeping on the roof.”

  Everyone cackled and swigged their beers. Everyone except Damien, Harry observed. The thug was scowling at them from the shadows of the fireplace, watching their every move. No one else seemed to notice though, and the giggling chatter amongst the group at the bar continued.

  Yet, despite the light-heartedness, Harry couldn’t help but notice that the snow outside continued to fall…

  And it seemed to be getting worse.

  As did Damien’s scowling.